


Makaze

by twamp



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Haircuts, M/M, Mild Gore, UST, everything that goes when you're giving someone a haircut ok?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twamp/pseuds/twamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will cuts his hair and it's disastrous. Hannibal offers to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trr_rr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trr_rr/gifts).



> this is my first fanfic ever and the first piece of fiction I've ever written in a language other than my own. i apologize in advance for all grammar/spelling errors, bad characterization and such. 
> 
>  
> 
> i wrote this after i've read tara's post about haircut anxiety and how will might have it. i tried to keep it short but failed so this comes in 2 chapters. 
> 
> the actual haircutting [and everything following] comes in the 2nd chapter.
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> p.s. this is set during the summer. i know there is no actual summer in the show but i wanted it to be summer so yeah.

The whirring of the old, plastic fan is doing next to nothing to elevate the humid summer heat as Will barges into his small bathroom late that afternoon. Hands shaking, he rummages through the cabinet drawers, looking for his old nail clipper. It takes him more than a few deep breaths to finally calm down enough to try and clip away the sullied nails without hurting his fingers in the process. He lets the ten of them fall into the washbasin and watches as they are pulled down by the current, the water carrying away the last bits of evidence.

Gripping the edge of the counter, Will dares a look in the mirror. There is no blood on his face but he can still feel it, sticky and drying on his skin under the hot sunlight. Bloodshot eyes slowly take in the mass of his ruffled, dirtied hair and Will feels like vomiting again. In a moment of pure panicked frenzy, he reaches into the cabinet again, pulling out a rarely used pair of scissors and starts clipping away every bloodied strand of hair that he can reach, not caring if he cuts too short.

Tearing his clothes off, Will steps into the shower, swiftly dipping himself underneath the spray of icy water. He starts to rub frantically, tipping over the shampoo bottles in an attempt to reach for the right one, squirting too much of the gooey mixture into his hand and trying to scrub every last piece of evidence off his body.

_As whenever when Jack called, the crime scene was horrifying. A body of what was once a woman, strangled and then left to rot in a locker in the middle of Baltimore train station, was discovered by the janitor because of an unbearable stench that had been spreading through the building for over 24 hours. To make things worse, this wasn't a solitary case._

_The previous two weeks brought them the first two bodies, both strangled beforehand and both decaying in extremely small, yet extremely public spaces. That morning on the phone with Jack, Will had almost let out a laugh. It was obvious that the killer was the same person, that he had chosen this method of arranging the corpses in order to be recognizable to both public and the FBI. Why Jack would need his insight_ again _, and on one of his rare days off, too, was unclear to Will. He had plans. Plans that mostly revolved around staying in bed with a fan turned on, risking a couple of hours of nightmare-ridden sleep, but still._

 _Still, he caved in. He went and let the smell of decay settle wetly in his lungs. When the station emptied, he closed his eyes. Imagined the fighting, the strangling, the complicated binding of the body before rigor mortis settled in, so that it would fit into the cramped place selected by him,_ no _, no,_ by the murderer _. Nothing he hadn't seen the previous two weeks and certainly not the worst crime he's revived in his head, and yet._

 _Yet, when he opened his eyes, he found himself hands deep in the bloated corpse and his face, his glasses, his hair wet with the darkened blood. The world had swirled in a haze as Katz and Price pulled him away from the body he was suddenly atop of. The stench, the feel of rotting matter on his fingers was unbearable and he couldn't breathe, he_ wouldn't _breathe. Jack was yelling something but Will couldn't hear over the sound of his heart's_ _erratic beating in his head and the screaming realization that he was losing his grip on reality again, he was losing time again,_ he was losing himself again _._

_The air was scarce and he was lead outside, Beverly wiping his hands with sanitary tissues and telling him that he needed to calm down and he needed to breathe. The world was white noise and glaring sun as Will was placed in the heated metal can that was his car, Jack's hand on his elbow, Jack's voice in his ears telling him to take a break and just go home and work this over with Dr. Lecter later._

Will towels himself off, hair clinging to his neck wetly and making him shiver despite the fact that it's surely over 25 degrees in the little bathroom. He turns the water in his washbasin on again and lets it carry down the dry curls he had cut away. Closing his eyes, Will leans his forehead on the cool surface of the mirror, just breathing in the clear, soothing smell of shampoo and lets the whirring of the fan wash over him, until there is nothing else in this world.

 

*          *          *

 

A couple of days later, when Will has slept and gathered enough of himself to start properly functioning again, he regrets the frenzied, half-mad decision to clip off every sullied lock of hair on his head.

At first, he notices his students grinning during the lecture on their latest case. Figuring _that_ couldn't possibly be the reason for _anyone_ to smile, Will realizes that it must be the way his curls jump out unevenly despite his best efforts to comb and tame them down that morning.

The next is Beverly, who tries with all her might to take the conversation away from Will's episode during their last meeting at the crime scene, and turn it more light-hearted instead, by jabbing Will about the fact that he looks at least ten years younger with his ears sticking out from his shortened hair. Price joins in, remarking that it definitely looks like he's cut it off by himself after some shots of vodka and being turned down by every woman in the bar. Will grins at this, placing the blame on a vengeful hairdresser whom he never tipped enough over the years.

 

The third and, in some way, most embarrassing indicator of his failure to even _attempt_ to look half-presentable following his failure with the scissors is, surprisingly, his psychiatrist. And while Will never took him for one to be distracted from their sessions by his ruffled appearance, this time he cannot help but notice the silent amusement in Dr. Lecter's eyes as he looks at him a tad too intensely during Will's explanation of the newest crime.

"... the way he binds the bodies indicates that he knows how much time he has to work with before the rigor mortis settles in. While this doesn't necessarily mean a medical background, Jack is willing to bet his li-", Will's speech halts to a stop and he frowns. Caught in the act, Dr. Lecter quickly reasserts his composure and opens his mouth to speak when Will interrupts him.

"I know. I know my hair looks ridiculous. And I am sorry, it's the end of the day and I had no time to even _try_ to gel it down before coming here", he sighs, averting his eyes as far away from his psychiatrist's face as possible.

"I am truly sorry, Will", an apologetic smile spreads across Dr. Lecter's face and Will can sense his discomfort, "That was extremely unprofessional of me. Although I have to advise you never to let the same hairdresser near yourself again. He or she seems to have held a grudge against you, because that cut looks nothing short of punishment."

"Perhaps it _was_ a punishment", Will mutters before he can stop himself. Maybe he doesn't even want to stop himself. With a raise of a curious eyebrow and a slow tilt of his head, Dr. Lecter prompts him to go on.

"I cut it myself. Three days ago, after the visit to the crime scene. Where I dissociated. Again", he tries his best to fake a smile, as if what he were saying was something trivial. His doctor's silence a sign to keep speaking, he continues.

"I had a day off and, well, Jack called, even though it was pretty obvious the killer had been the same person. Wanted me to look, just in case something we'd missed popped up. So I went and looked and... It turned out everything was the same", Will stops, suddenly unable to continue. The gravity of what he is about to tell settles heavily in his chest. He didn't really have a chance to share the experience with anyone yet, considering how it happened on a Sunday and his appointments with Dr. Lecter were scheduled for Wednesdays.

"I hardly doubt you'd be in such a distress if everything had indeed been the same, Will", Dr. Lecter stirs him out of his reverie, leaning on the opposite armrest of the lavish leather chair and crossing his legs: a picture perfect of calm confidence. Will finds himself envious. He drops his eyes to a shiny leather point of Dr. Lecter's right shoe and starts speaking again.

"The crime was the same, but my reaction to it wasn't... It was like Beth LeBeau all over again. Except this time it took Katz and Price to lift me off the body, because I - ", Will lets out a shuddering breath, gaze still fixed low "... I wasn't aware of what I was doing _at all_. My mind just... just shut off. Completely. I'm still not sure how I drove back home. And then I saw the blood underneath my fingernails and... And on my hair, and I just cut it all off."

 

His confession is followed by a heavy silence, but Will can't help but feel relieved for having confided his troubles to another human being. _Even though the particular human being is being paid to listen to him and will never see him as more than a patient_ , his mind is quick to add and the relief is gone as quickly as it came.

"And what did agent Crawford have to say to this?", the doctor breaks the silence. Will dares a short look at his face and registers that it has grown stern. "Has he finally realized how much he's been pressuring you? And have _you_ finally understood how badly this all affects you, Will?"

"Well, if you can call a two week break Jack had promised me a realization, then yes. He did. I think he even mentioned prolonging it if I ask him to", Will answers, ignoring Dr. Lecter's last question, even though a distant part of him is flattered by the worry in his voice. _A worry he's paid to display,_ his mind adds again and Will shakes the thought off.

"Will you ask him to?"

"I might if I don't feel well enough. I might even if I _do_ feel well enough. Take your advice, take a break", Will lets out a dry chuckle. He already knows he won't be taking that advice. He's pretty sure Dr. Lecter does, as well. "Take some time to grow out my hair and cut it properly this time, maybe."

"Two weeks is too short a time span for your hair to return to its old shape, I'm afraid, Will", thankfully, Dr. Lecter takes on this turn of their conversation. The heavy atmosphere lifts as he rises out of the chair and strides over to the desk, where a decantered bottle of rosé awaits. "What you need is to get it cut properly as soon as possible, so it has a chance to grow back into its previous form." He pours them both a well-measured glass and walks back to Will.

"Easier said than done when your hairdresser is yourself", Will comments, taking the glass handed to him with a grateful smile and a tip of his head. Dr. Lecter's expression is one of pure curiosity as he seats himself across from Will again, so he decides to indulge him.

"The atmosphere of a salon makes me uneasy. Too many people, too many mirrors. And the fact that there's a stranger holding a blade so close to my head doesn't help, either. A souvenir from being stabbed as a cop, I suppose", he grimaces and takes a sip. The wine is good, as always, and chilly. A perfect counterpart to the warm August evening that slowly descends on them.

"Ever since that accident, I've been trimming my hair by myself every couple of weeks or so. Never required much work", Will adds, placing the glass on the coffee table. "Not so sure that will be the case _now_ , however, with the mess I've made", he finishes quietly, sliding his palms over his face. They're cool from holding the cold beverage, and soothing. He suddenly realizes just how tired he is, wondering if the feeling will last until he is back in his bed, so that he could engage in some genuine sleeping, maybe.

 

"I might have a solution for you", Dr. Lecter says, after a couple of quiet moments spent in thought, "although the proposition might seem a bit unconventional."

"As far as I remember, drinking with a patient would be considered unconventional by most psychiatrists as well", Will is quick to remind, dropping his hands to his lap to reveal his first honest smile of the day.

"Except you are not, strictly-speaking, my patient, Will", now it's Dr. Lecter's turn to smile.  Their eyes meet, and that might be yet another first of the day.

"All the more a reason to share your unconventional proposition, then, Dr Lecter."

"Very well", the doctor places his glass on the coffee table as well, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Elegant hands fold underneath his chin and he continues. "Just like you, I'm not very fond of either salons or the hairdressers, although my reasons could be a tad different than your own. And, just like you, I take care of my hair by myself and have been doing it for quite a while. This is why I also happen to be in possession of a pretty good, high quality haircutting kit", he finishes, taking a sip of his wine and relaxing back in his chair.

"A-are you offering to give me a haircut, Doctor?", Will's stammers after a pause, eyebrows shooting upwards in disbelief. The fact that Hannibal can cut hair (and quite well at that) on top of all the other things he excels at, does not surprise him. No. Instead he's baffled by the mere fact that Dr. Lecter, the esteemed psychiatrist and a wealthy socialite, would even offer to cut some cheaply dressed, fidgeting agent's hair. Baffled _and_ extremely flattered, but he pushes that thought as far away from his conscious mind as possible.

"You could call it an exercise in trust between friends. I hope I'm not getting ahead of myself when I think that you'd trust me more than you would a random hairdresser in some salon, Will", Dr. Lecter's teeth glint in the low light as he chuckles, perfectly at ease with his proposition.

 Not trusting his voice enough to speak, Will nods, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. His eyes are back on the floor and he hopes the warmth he feels rising in his cheeks won't be noticed in the dim daylight.

"Yeah. Okay. I mean, sure. If it is not a problem for you, that is", he says finally, lips twisting into a quick, self-depreciating smile. He swallows down an inelegant gulp of his rosé. "After all, you used to be a surgeon. I suppose I can trust you not to cut my ears off while trying to fix _this_ mess", he rolls his eyes, pointing towards his hair.

For some unknown reason, Hannibal laughs at this and Will can't help but join, his mood elevated and his stomach twisting into knots.

 

There is no more wine in his glass and it's already way past the appointment time. The evening has settled in fully around them, coloring the office walls a pleasant purple. Will stands up to go and Dr. Lecter follows him, switching on a couple of tastefully placed wall lamps as he goes. Before Will can run off and hide in his car, however, he turns around, an embodiment of social ineptness, and directs what he hopes is a friendly look somewhere at his doctor's forehead, not daring to meet his eyes.

"Well, now that we have a deal, how about you come by this Friday? We could use the opportunity of a free evening to celebrate the beginning of your vacation and get your hair done at the same time", Dr. Lecter offers with a disarming smile, opening the door and holding it for Will. Realizing that the man is probably waiting for an answer while he's doing nothing but just standing there and blinking stupidly, Will nods, trying his best to smile without showing how excited he truly is by the offer.

"Yes. Alright, Friday's okay. Um. About six? So I could, uh, return early enough to let the dogs out for an evening walk?", he mutters, licking his lips nervously and unsuccessfully willing the heat in his chest to go away.

  
"Six would be good. Alright, then, I wish you a safe drive home, Will", with a light touch on his back, Dr. Lecter charmingly ushers him over the threshold and out of the office.

  
It takes Will a couple of moments to register that he had responded "Yeah, you too" to an empty waiting room.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will comes over for dinner and a haircut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first, i want to thank you all for the lovely feedback on the first chapter! to someone who's never written fanfiction [or any fiction in english], it was a major confidence boost. 
> 
> second, i want to apologize for not updating sooner. i really thought i'd get this done by sunday, but real life kinda got in the way
> 
> and third, i'm very very sorry for splitting what i said would be the second chapter into two parts. i already have most of ch3 done, but together with this it would've made a very, very long chapter.
> 
> so yeah, actual haircutting in chapter 3
> 
> huge thanks to [tara](http://trr-rr.tumblr.com) whose post inspired me to write this at all!

The porch doors are open as the two of them settle around the dining table that Friday evening. A warm breeze is playing with the curtains and carrying in the scent of hydrangeas from the yard. It is not yet dark enough for artificial light, so they're engulfed in the fine glow of a day ending. 

The afternoon had been hot and humid. Will's shirt is not yet completely dry from his drive over from Wolf Trap and he can feel it sticking to his back in places.He hopes the dark spots on the fabric and his own subsequent embarrassed blush will not be noticed by Dr. Lecter when he leans down to pour him a glass of white wine before their meal.

Hannibal notices. 

He notices the sweat first, from the moment Will enters his home in his usual attire of a checkered cotton shirt and a pair of worn out jeans, holding a bottle of middle-class riesling in his hands and fidgeting nervously. He smells like dried salt, dogs and deodorant, which probably came in a set with his usual atrocious aftershave.  
  
Surprisingly, Hannibal finds that he doesn't mind. If all goes according to the deal they'd made two days earlier, he will have Will smelling like himself by the end of the evening. 

The blush, however, is something he had noticed during the last couple of their sessions. It would usually occur after a particularly well-timed compliment or even an approving smile that Hannibal would offer from time to time. Although everything suggested that the slight flush was purely a subconscious reaction to praise (probably stemming from the lack of it in Will's everyday life), there was something in the way that Will would duck his head or bite his lip that prompted Hannibal to indulge in a possibility of his troubled patient harboring something more than friendly affection towards him.  
Chasing that thought, he started noticing the other signs. The subtle sweating of palms, the quickening of breath, a nervous hand in his curls, ruffling charmingly. The insistent way that Will's body unconsciously struggles to open itself towards the doctor, his hands and legs uncrossing when he's near.

And again, Hannibal finds that he doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all.

So he tips the bottle and fills Will's glass with the riesling he had brought, taking in the flushing of his cheeks, the subtle scent of him as the best of appetizers. Returning to his seat, he wishes them both a _Bon Appetit_ and enjoys the way Will digs in first, the curve of a silver spoon disappearing behind his lips and eyelids closing in pure enjoyment of the cold _vichyssoise_

"This is delicious", Will braves clumsily after the first few mouthfuls, just to break the silence. "Like everything else you make. Although I'm sure you must be getting tired of that by now."

Hannibal's eyebrow quirks and Will bites his tongue. "People telling you that your meals are amazing, I mean", he adds, ducking his head and feeling remarkably stupid.

"On the contrary, Will", Hannibal smiles, tapping his mouth with a napkin and delighted by Will's honest attempt at praise. "It is every chef's pleasure to hear that their cooking is enjoyed by others, and I'm afraid that I'm far too vain to _ever_ get tired of the compliments."

"I am also afraid that you're under a common misconception that a I treat a large number of people to my finest cooking", he continues after a thought, laying a careful bait for the agent to catch, just because he can. This whole evening is a carefully orchestrated indulgence after all.

"Don't you?", Will is quick to respond after swallowing another spoonful of his soup , face twisting into an endearing grimace of confusion, eyes meeting Hannibal's across the table.

"No", Hannibal averts his gaze and licks his lips thoughtfully, as if confessing a secret. "I keep my best for opportunities such as these", he uses Will's momentary surprise to lock eyes with him again. "And compliments given by friends are much more enjoyable to hear than those by acquaintances invited for a dinner by the rules of courtesy."

Will is speechless for a couple of seconds, but then a genuine smile spreads across his features and he huffs out an embarrassed little chuckle, quickly occupying himself with studying the complicated pattern of the jacquard tablecloth. The warmth that filled his chest during the last therapy session is crawling its way up his ribs again and he absently wishes his doctor had turned the AC in the dining room on instead of leaving the porch doors open.

After the soup, surprisingly, comes salad, which Will is pretty sure is Dr Lecter's own posh take on the classic Caesar's. He knows better than to try and mention his assumptions and make a fool of himself again, though. His eyes follow the psychiatrist's measured movements as he arranges neat little bowls of dressings and plates of golden-brown croutons about the table, and Will comes to a decision to speak as little as possible tonight, in order to preserve what remained of his crumbling dignity.

Before they begin, Hannibal excuses himself for not preparing something more substantial, stating how he considers salads a perfectly refreshing remedy for the unbearable summer heat. He doesn't tell Will how the carefully diced and grilled bites of bacon peeking out of crisp lettuce leaves originate from the belly of a hopelessly impolite car mechanic who tried to overcharge him for poor services more than once. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he knew. Not for now, at least.

There is little conversation as they finish the meal and Will finds himself playing with the hem of a napkin anxiously as Dr. Lecter cleans the table, politely insisting that Will _remain seated and not worry about the dishes_ , _please, he's a guest here_. He uses the moment of his host's absence to take a look at himself, and it strikes him just how god damn unkempt he is. Misfortunate hairstyle aside, Will really thinks he could've at least worn a nicer shirt. This one is already starting to fray around the seams and he even notices some dog hair clinging to the sleeves. But before he has a chance to brush it off, Dr Lecter is back from the kitchen, smiling pleasantly and beckoning him to stand up and follow him upstairs.

 

 

*                *                *

Hannibal debated doing this in the guest lavatory on the first floor, but the way Will's eyes widen and the blush spreads above the neckline of his shirt when he crosses the threshold of the doctor's bedroom in order to be ushered into a large, en-suite bathroom, proves that he had indeed made the right decision.

"Oh. You prepared everything", the agent notices quietly but his voice echoes across the tiled surfaces. A simple backless chair has been positioned in front of a pristine white washbasin. Nearby, a solid wooden box containing the necessary hair-cutting utensils rests on the marble countertop. Cream-colored towels that match the shade of the luxurious freestanding bathtub are stacked neatly next to the box, and topping them is a sheer blue cotton cloth Will supposes will be draped over his shoulders before they start.

"I figured it would save us a fair amount of time", Hannibal answers, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt neatly, leaving the bathroom doors opened behind him. "If you would be so kind as to have a seat Will, so that we can begin."

Will does. He tries to avoid meeting his reflection's stare in the large, vintage mirror above the washbasin, and fails.

"I think it would be better if we would, uh, get this done as quickly as possible, Doctor", he sighs and glares at himself, at the scruff, the faint eye-bags and the god damn checkered shirt, feeling extremely out of place here, in this lavish piece of his doctor's ( _his friend's_?) privacy.

"I agree", Hannibal says as he takes a stand behind the agent's hunched form. He lies. Sensing Will's discomfort, he directs a soft smile at the younger man's reflection, and thinks of all the means he would use to make him stay here, _right here,_ for hours and days on end.

"I have to ask you to turn around now, Will, and tilt your head above the washbasin", Dr Lecter's wide hands give his shoulders a brief, reassuring squeeze and Will shivers involuntarily when they rise. One of the cream towels is pressed against his neck, so that his shirt wouldn't get wet. Mentally chiding himself for not offering to wash his hair on his own, but deciding it's probably too late to mention it _now_ , Will turns around on the stool and tips his head back. The smooth, hard edge of the sink presses into his nape as he observes Dr. Lecter picking up differently sized bottles and a detachable shower-head from an off-white, antique cabinet next to the tub.

The taps are turned on and water drizzles pleasantly across Will's skin, cooling his agitated mind and allowing him to settle into the tranquility and peace that this space truly offers. He tries his best to avert his thoughts from the long fingers now carefully threading through his curls by studying his surroundings through half-lidded eyes.

The tiles are all muted blues and pastel turquoises, subtle and pleasant. A couple of matching, floral-shaped lamps adorn the wall across from him, emitting soft, unobtrusive light, much unlike the light in his own bathroom back in Wolf Trap. The previous owners of the house obviously had no interest in interior decorating and have left behind two naked light-bulbs and a glaring neon rod above the mirror, which Will never had enough time to replace for something less aggressive.

He hears a bottle being opened and a mild scent of pine fills his nostrils as Dr. Lecter spreads a generous amount of shampoo on his hair and starts rubbing it gently in, his touch more of a tickle than anything else.

"You can go harder, I won't break", Will mutters sarcastically before he has a chance to even consider the meaning of his words and stop himself from saying them aloud.  
"It's- I mean, it's starting to tickle", he adds, mortified, and shuts his eyes firmly, feeling the heat spill over his face and his insides clench. He regrets not sticking to the deal he'd made with himself in the dining room.

"It's no problem, Will. I apologize, it's not often that I do this for other people", Hannibal chuckles, purposely adding metaphorical fuel to the fire currently blazing across Will's cheeks. His fingers continue scrubbing with an added vigor and he fleetingly wonders about other activities during which Will might like being went harder on.

 

From this position, he can fully marvel at the beauty of what's currently pretty literally in his grasp, without being caught. He lets the soft, slippery strands smoothly slide through his fingers more times than it's strictly necessary, just for the pure tactile enjoyment of it. The sweet, feverish scent rising off like steam from Will's scalp is made even more potent by the warm water and shampoo and Hannibal makes full use of Will's inability to see him to lean in and fill his nose, his mouth and the back of his throat with it in a couple of indulgent whiffs.

Gliding through wet curls, his hands admire the delicately shaped sphere that is William Graham's skull, and the doctor can't help but close his eyes, imagining for a moment that it is the soft, spongy tissue of his enflamed brain just a centimeter lower that he's caressing and not the expanse of hard, skin-covered bone. The image itself is enough to illicit the first beginnings of arousal low in his stomach, so Hannibal stores it away for later pondering. Instead, he turns the water in the washbasin on again and showers the pine-scented suds off and away from the darkened locks.

A fluffy towel enveloping his head tugs Will from the pleasant drifting he'd fallen victim to while the shampoo was being smoothly rinsed off his hair. Dr. Lecter's hands start rubbing the fabric over his head roughly, and Will can't stop the spontaneous giggle  at how childish it makes him feel. When the towel is removed, his doctor's curious eyes stare at him from above.

"What's the matter?", he asks, still holding the wet towel, a confused little smile curving his strangely shaped lips.

"It's silly", Will replies, turning around now to face the mirror and trying his best not to allow his nerves to push him into a giggling fit. "When I was little, my dad used to do this. Wash my hair, then rub me up with a towel like that." The realization that he'd just compared his father to Dr. Lecter, a _psychiatrist_ of all people, makes him bite his tongue hard.

"He used to put a bowl on my head and then just cut off what stuck out of it", Will continues quickly, smiling at the recollection. "No one told him _that_ trick doesn't work the same on curly hair as it does on straight, I suppose."

"I understand that you may be fond of that memory, Will, but I'll have to disappoint you. My methods of haircutting are far less interesting." Dr. Lecter directs an amused smile at Will's reflection. Their eyes meet and Will's stomach clenches in flutters.

"On your right are all the tools we will be using today. No bowls among them, I'm afraid", the doctor adds, turning around to leave the wet towel to dry. Meanwhile, Will studies the contents of the wooden box. The polished metal surfaces of three different pairs of scissors glint in the light of a lamp above the mirror. Next to them are a couple of hairbrushes and combs, hairpins, a pair of long tweezers, a vintage shaving machine and a thick, beaver-hair brush with a short, smooth wooden handle.

Hannibal drapes the sheer, cotton cloth across Will's torso and ties it neatly behind his back. Rising, he glides his hands down the curve of the agent's shoulders and delights in the resulting look of flustered unease on his face.

"There are some hairdressers who claim that cutting of hair in front of a mirror can be psychologically damaging for the customer", Hannibal starts conversationally, fingers tousling Will's locks, gently dividing them into lower and higher portions and keeping them separated with a couple of hairpins.  
  
"However, despite not being a professional, I can't help but disagree. The presence of a mirror can be _highly_ therapeutic." He reaches for one of the combs. While untangling Will's dry curls could've seemed like an arduous task, when wet they're perfectly pliant.

"I believe that by watching their hair being cut off, a customer who's recently been through a tough period can experience a certain sense of catharsis." Hannibal stores the comb away and takes a pair of scissors from the box. He snaps them a couple of times right above Will's head, the younger man's eyes following the moment nervously. Satisfied that the attention is on him, Hannibal takes the first strand of hair from the lower portion into his fingers.

"Something like, uh, cutting the bad memories away?", Will supplies, grimacing, and a genuine smile spreads across his doctor's face.

"Exactly, my dear Will."

 

And then Hannibal cuts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and the feedback!  
> if you wanna chat, i'm [here](http://t-w-a-m-p.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will finally gets his haircut. And a tiny bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, i'd like to thank you all again for being wonderful! your comments made me smile and some of you even contacted me on tumblr and i had great fun! 
> 
> second, a little disclaimer. i am no hairdresser ~~[my attempts at hairdressing are limited to shortening my own bangs when they reach my nose]~~ and all of the hairdressing described here is based purely on my own experiences with my own hairdressers and their techniques.
> 
> third, i'm really sorry for not posting ch3 sooner. i [yet again] told some of you that it'd be up soon, but real life issues, a trip to another country and general laziness kinda got in the way of writing.
> 
> as always, thanks to [tara](http://www.trr-rr.tumblr.com/) for inspiring me !

Sadly, Will doesn't feel _any_ of the catharsis Dr. Lecter had been speaking about. One by one, the curls tumble lightly from his head, over his shoulders and onto the immaculate floor and he can't feel anything but discomfort and a strange sort of distress at having someone, _no_ , not _someone_ \- _Dr. Lecter_ \- so physically close to him. The hair washing had been much simpler. Will could relax into the sensations of deft hands massaging his scalp, the pleasant smell of the shampoo or the distant, constant hum of the AC coming from the bedroom. Now, he feels trapped between his doctor's body behind him and their reflections in front.

For some time his eyes follow the movements of the scissors but then they start steadily straying towards Dr. Lecter. His pinstriped shirt wet in patches where water splashed it when he was rinsing Will's hair off. His forearms, the only part of the man he'd witnessed unclothed (and very rarely at that), strong and sinewy, yet moving about Will's head with apeculiar sort of grace. His full lips pouted in concentration, light brown bangs fanning charmingly across his forehead.

 

Before he can catch himself staring, the psychiatrist's strangely maroon eyes snap up to his and Will inhales sharply, instinctively, dropping his gaze to his lap at once. The warmth of guilt and something else fills him from bellybutton to clavicle again, and he knows that willing it away is pointless. It seems as if it were there the whole time, nestled softly inside his chest ever since he'd entered Dr. Lecter's home at 6:04 that evening. Perhaps since even earlier. Maybe.

Lacking visual distraction, Will finds his mind being sharply in tunewith every other sensation around him. It doesn't make the situation any easier. He bites his lip discreetly and prays for his reaction to the overwhelming stimuli to not turn obviously physical.

But it is all too much. The smooth, cold glide of metal on his scalp. The steady rhythm of his doctor's breath in the silence of the bathroom. The smell of him, so close that Will feels it gathering thickly in the back of his throat. The warm fingertips that comb through his wet locks almost lovingly.

 

"Ah!", Will can't help but yelp when the scissors tug too hard on one of the strands at his nape. The pain is stinging and momentary, but a shiver travels down his body, making his breath shudder on the next exhale. The back of his neck has always been a sensitive area, but it never really occurred to Will just how exposed it would be during this unconventional appointment. 

"I'm sorry, Will. It seems a hair got stuck between the scissor blades", Hannibal explains, glazing his statement withworry in order to hide the fact that the sharp pull and the resulting pain were both very much intentional. Having Will fidget and sweat sweetly less than ten centimeters away was endearing and something that Hannibal had planned for when he offered him a favor of cutting his hair in the first place. However, catching Will's wide-eyed stare on him a couple of minutes ago, acute and almost hungry, sensing the scent of him subtly change to something sharper, stirred something inside the doctor that prompts himto take on a different route.

After all, what is Hannibal if not a man of flexible plans.

 

The lower portion of Will's curls now neatly trimmed, he takes the pins out of the top layer and lets it down. This is where the damage is the most apparent, tresses sticking out unevenly even when wet. Taking them between his fingers, Hannibal pictures the way Will's gore-coated hands pulled at hair in manic frenzy. The way they had spread blood over his neck, the trembling Adam's apple, over stubbled jaw and cheeks. He deeply regrets not being able to witness it personally, but satisfies himself with the image provided by his ever inventive mind. For now, at least.

Leaning in closer, he cuts slowly, endlessly prolonging the work most hairdressers would be long done with by now. Will, for his part, doesn't seem to notice or mind, gaze fixed determinedly on his lap. Neither of them initiates conversation, not even small talk, and it's a sign enough for Hannibal that his senses are indeed right. That there exists a certain attraction towards him inside Will that keeps his lips sealed tight and his face alight with a persistent blush. Fresh, nervous sweat is pooling lightly in the dip of his collarbones and Hannibal imagines tracing it with his lips and fingers, then squeezing until thin skin turns blue.

Having shorn away most of the portion above the forehead, he moves on to the sides. Unintentionally this time, the scissors graze the curves of Will's ears and the doctor is pleasantly surprised by small, restrained gasps that fly out of his mouth like wispy moths. Intrigued, he lets the metal touch his dear _not_ -patient's skin again and again, reveling in every tiny shudder that follows.

Luckily, he keeps this new, curious desire in line, mostly for his own sake, but also for Will's. His hair is already shorter than Hannibal prefers, so the scissors are returned to their place on the countertop. Holding Will's head gently between fingers, he tips it slowly up, making the younger man face his own reflection in the mirror. 

 

It's the first time Will's truly spared a look at himself since the haircutting started, and he's honestly startled. The cut is different from anything he'd ever attempted with his blunt scissors and it makes his angular features stand out, makeshim appear more masculine _and_ more youthful at the same time.

"Wow, um. Are you sure medicine is your right call, Doctor?" Will says, a little grin forming on his face, fingers tentatively combing through the unusual shortness. Dr. Lecter's expression is amused and he tilts his head questioningly. 

"I mean -How you managed to make, well, _that_ look presentable is beyond me", Will explains, pointing towards his reflection and risking a glance upwards, at the face of the man above him.

"I merely brought out what was there all along", Hannibal answers with a gentle smile.

 

At that moment, Will feels as if his chest might burst open and can no longer ignore the voice in his head, the voice that's usually so good at judging others, that's god damn _paid_ for discerning criminals from innocents, the voice now telling him that there _is something more_ than a friendly compliment hiding behind Dr. Lecter's words. The bare possibility of it scares and excites him at the same time and he honestly _does_ _not know what to do._

They share a long, silent look at each other and when he sees Will attempting to rise from the stool, Hannibal is certain it's in order to physically breach the subject of what's been palpably torturing him (and, admittedly, Hannibal himself) throughout the evening.

"I-I really should be going now, Dr. Lecter, I've already taken enough of your time and I forg-", Will tries when he's stopped by the doctor's hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down on the chair.

"Not yet", Hannibal breathes. The clench of disappointment at the prospect of losing Will after coaxing him so close makes him act on instinct, and he berates himself for the brief loss of control over the situation and the movements of his own body.

"We've yet to trim the hair from your neck and add some other final touches, Will", Dr Lecter explains as if speaking to a child. The touch on his shoulders burns through Will's shirt. The steady thudding of his heart echoes in his ears and it's so loud that he can almost feel the bones of his skull vibrating with the sound. He gulps down air and tries to even the pace of his own breaths. Tries to smother the boiling bubbles of excitement at the prospect of someone like Hannibal Lecter wanting _him._ The red heat of it transforms into dewy sweat that tickles down his neck and Will just wants to disappear into thin summer air of the cool bathroom.

 

"One of the main reasons I've bought this particular hairdresser's set is _this_ ", Hannibal keeps his tone perfectly conversational, even though small talk is the _last_ thing he currently wants to enjoy with Will Graham. He reaches towards the counter and retrieves the razor, careful to brush his bicep against the younger man's upper arm. "A fine, antique razor is somewhat of a rarity these days."

Will watches the reflection of his doctor work on untangling the striped, snakelike cord of the machine, uncurling it in gentle strokes, and has to avert his eyes at the associations his brain is too quick to provide him with. A naked forearm grazes him as Dr Lecter leans to plug the razor in, and he can't help but wonder whether the movement was deliberate or not.

His thoughts are almost immediately drowned out by the loud buzzing of the machine's old motor. A price for its unique look and antiquity, Will muses, as Dr. Lecter's left hand finds its way into his hair again, raising it up and tipping his head forward in order to reach the short fuzz at the nape.

 

As soon as the cold metal touches the warm, wet skin, Will's whole body flinches in a nervous shock. Eyes wide in surprise meet him in the mirror and Hannibal gives his best apologetic smile, but continues to glide the electric blade against the neck, eliciting more shudders. Fine, brown hairs fly around as they're being cut off, scattering over the agent's shirt collar and sticking to his sweaty nape. 

Turning the razor off, Hannibal decides to take a risk of forgoing the beaver-haired brush and remove the stray hairs away with his own fingertips. He barely manages to swipe at them twice, however, when Will angles his head from the touch and drags himself as far away from the doctor as physically possible on the small stool.

"I, um, my experience with hairdressers is fairly lacking but", he mutters, startled by his own boldness and fixing his eyes on the tiles behind Dr. Lecter's shoulder, "isn't it more, erm, convenient to use a brush for that?"

Hannibal feels his own upper lip twitching in surprise at the fact that Will would voice his discomfort at this point, but quickly schools his face into a confused expression.

"Your neck is damp, Will. The brush wouldn't be able to pick the shorter hairs and it would only cause irritation", he explains with an air of professionalism he's certain the agent won't question. There is always the possibility of just drying him off with a towel first, but the psychiatrist is pretty sure that Will is too embarrassed to ask for it now.

 

And he doesn't, instead sliding back into his previous place on the chair. The way he bites his lip, however, does not escape Hannibal and he decides it's high time he breached Will's barriers and started steering towards the end of the road intended for tonight.

"I have a feeling there is something more to your question than simple inquiry about brushes, Will. Would you like to discuss it?"

"There is nothing to discuss, Doctor", Will retorts quickly. It takes him a long, silent moment to realize that he _can_ give Dr. Lecter a suitable explanation that doesn't include spilling out his _feelings_ for him. The bare thought of ever mentioning _those_ makes him twist his lips into a grimace. His doctor is silent and expectant behind him. Will buries his face in his cold, sweaty hands.

"I just don't like to be touched", he utters into the dark, humid space between his nose and palms, and it doesn't feel that bad. After all, he's not lying. Others' touch is universally disconcerting to him, always has been. The only thing that he's not revealing is how much more different the nature of said disconcertion is when Dr. Lecter is in question.

"I figured as much before", Hannibal says. He didn't expect more from Will's answer, but it gives him enough ground to continue prodding. "It is something that goes hand-in-hand with your other gifts, and your other idiosyncrasies. Unwillingness to establish eye-contact, for instance."  

Will is silent, nodding a couple of times in agreement, face still hidden in the safety his palms. He feels it heat up and doesn't dare reveal it.

"However, I think it would help you a great deal if you were to let go of that particular...  fear now. Especially because you're in a safe environment", Hannibal lets his hand squeeze one of Will's shoulders, an offer of support. "And with a friend", he adds carefully. A thought crosses his mind and instead of placing his fingers back on the younger man's nape, he reaches for the brush instead.

The seemingly smooth brush proves to be as irritating as Dr. Lecter said but Will knows it would be just plain rude to voice it now. Far worse than irritation, however, is a peculiar tickling sensation the brushing sends down his spine, ending with a jolt at his tailbone.

Will grips the edges of the stool to ground himself, his doctor's words circling through his head, elevating his heart rate once more.

 

"Is _this_ all a part of therapy, then?", he asks belatedly, voice wavering, as Dr. Lecter is returning the brush to its place. Will's gaze is on the floor, studying some of his shorn curls next to his feet. He chuckles, a small, desperate thing, and prays to every deity available that this goes painlessly. "Getting me to leave behind my _idiosyncrasies_ in a safe environment?"

Hannibal stops his movement half-way, one of his hands holding a tube of clear gel right above the agent's head. An honest smile spreads across his face and he's delighted by the sheer surprise he feels Will elicit with his words, his tentative attempt to test the waters and find out if what Hannibal says is what Hannibal means.

The courage of it is so fresh that it makes him feel generous.

 

"Not at all, Will", he opens the tube and dribbles some of the gooey substance onto his fingertips. Anticipation unlike any he's felt recently makes it difficult to keep track of what he's supposed to do, and that is ruffle the curls in front of him moderately in a left-side part. But he manages.

"My only wish is to help you, always", Hannibal continues, fingers combing slowly through the now dry tresses. The sweet scent of fever is less potent now, but still there, and it spurs him on and go in for the kill. Bending at the waist, he leans in closer, taking full note of the blue eyes shooting up and observing his reflection in the mirror intently.  

"It's only convenient that this particular issue came up _now_."

 

Their gazes meet and Will can't breathe. Dr. Lecter's hands are on his shoulders again, gentle and caressing. He's not even sure if what is currently overpowering him is what _he_ feels or what his doctor - what _Hannibal -_ feels anymore, but he doesn't feel like stomping it down for once. All he's sure of is that he's choking on the intensity of it, the sheer desire and violence of it and the arousal waking inside him is just a natural, primal reaction to it all.

"Is it?" he manages, the last remains of doubt sealed away with the words. Dr Lecter's stomach is strong and warm against his sweaty back, his face right behind his neck as his lips form a pout and then there's air, thin, cool stream of breath on his nape and Will is in no control of the moan that's torn away from his mouth.

Hannibal's fingers dig into the checkered shirt at that, the tension in the little bathroom ripe on his tongue. The blush, the blush that made him question Will's motives behind it in the first place, spills over the agent's face steadily, his cheeks grow rosy and Hannibal wants to taste the apples of them, to bruise and scar the beautiful, youthful face forever.

No. Not now.

"Yes", he breathes into Will's ear and bites down on his neck instead.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and the feedback!  
> i hoped you liked it, because personally, i am not 100% happy with this chapter.
> 
> i'd really like to write more stories now, though! i'm sadly uninspired, so if you wanna chat or have some ideas, i'm[here](http://www.t-w-a-m-p.tumblr.com) !

**Author's Note:**

> will be posting the 2nd chapter in a couple of days hopefully. 
> 
> would be lovely if you left me some feedback because i'm suuuuuuuuper nervous about this (／(ｴ)＼)


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